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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25135108">He's All That</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rchr/pseuds/rchr'>rchr</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Friendship, Gen, One Shot, Possibly Pre-Slash</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:53:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,781</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25135108</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rchr/pseuds/rchr</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"One does not simply make over the good Dr. Reid. A true makeover is all about sowing the seeds."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>88</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>He's All That</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>All timeline errors and egregious grammar rule-breaking are mine.</p><p>Set season 1ish/between 1-2</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Okay, someone's <em> got </em>to tell Reid to cut his damn nails. It's driving me insane." </p><p>Morgan looks up mildly as hurricane Elle blows in. She slams her bag down on the ground then slams herself down into her chair, which squeaks in affront. </p><p>"Someone woke up in the wrong bed this morning," Morgan waggles his eyebrows at her, and she huffs. "What do you have against nails?” He frowns. “And Reid?"</p><p>The kid is a little out there, he’ll concede, and maybe too eager to please, but he’s essentially harmless. And besides, Morgan thought the two got along fine.</p><p>"He's always swinging his paws around when he talks, and they <em> clack,</em> okay? It makes my skin crawl.” She's got her shoulders and hands pulled up defensively, like she's trying to ward off wayward Reid nails falling out of the ceiling. He nearly looks up reflexively. </p><p>"And when he <em> types</em>." A full body shudder ruffles her posture. </p><p>Morgan, nonplussed, can’t come up with anything in defense of his young friend, having never paid much attention to the guy’s hands. But surely she’s being a tad unfair. He’s opening his mouth to say as much when the devil himself slips through the glass doors with Anderson, fingers distinctly claw-like and voice pitched in professor-lecture mode. From the glazed look in Anderson’s eyes and vague non-avoidance of the hallway filing cabinet — it almost knocks him sideways into Reid, who haphazardly sidesteps — Reid’s been at it a while. </p><p>“— thus the population growth rate will inevitably fall to near-zero values. It’s actually extremely simple when you think about it. Hey Morgan. Hi Elle.”</p><p>They come to stop by Morgan’s desk, and Anderson revives from his fugue state with a start. </p><p>“Good morning,” the agent greets in a voice that suggests he has no idea where he is and is very surprised to see other human faces. Elle snorts meanly, but her head remains buried in a file on her desk. Anderson’s head swings back and forth with increasing bewilderment at the slowly filling bullpen before giving a <em> very </em>nonchalant nod and whisking away whence he came. Morgan cranes his neck to watch Anderson’s slightly unsteady progress out into the hall.</p><p>“I think that’s the third time you’ve accidentally hypnotized him this month,” he notes absently. </p><p>Reid’s head cocks in incomprehension. “I was just explaining the basic logic behind the secular cycles theory and its ramifications for —” </p><p>“So how was your weekend, Elle?” Morgan interrupts loudly, and Reid’s jaw shuts unconcernedly as he turns to regard Elle.</p><p>“Fine,” is all they get from her.</p><p>A beat.</p><p>“That’s shorter than your usual weekend escapades,” Reid ventures. He taps a nail on the bag strap across his chest. <em> Tip tap. </em></p><p>A vein pulses silently in Elle’s forehead. Morgan decides to risk it.</p><p>“Do anything in particular? Fun?” He pauses for effect. “Not fun?”</p><p>“None of your business, Agent Morgan.” </p><p>Morgan and Reid glance at each other sidelong. Reid’s look is markedly more distressed than Morgan’s. Not fun, then. Reid clears his throat.</p><p>“Um, sorry about the elevator, Elle,” he says as he skirts the edge of the storm blackening the air around Elle’s head to get to his desk. Morgan swears her hair is starting to rise from static tension. “I could have held —”</p><p>“Had some energy to burn. Took the stairs,” she says curtly, still without looking up. Her pen presses into her paper with enough force to eviscerate mortal flesh. Reid’s eyes get big as the damn moon.</p><p><em> What the hell did you do, </em>Morgan mouths, highly subtle, at Reid, who only responds with a look of wide-eyed dismay and a bone-jangling shrug.  </p><p>“I can <em> hear </em> you,” Elle says, and if her face wasn’t so murderous her tone could almost be singsong. She <em> stabs </em> a period into her report (Morgan decidedly does <em> not </em> flinch), slams the folder shut, and stalks off to Hotch’s office. </p><p>Reid turns his big saucer eyes to Morgan. </p><p>“I wouldn’t take it too personally, doc,” Morgan mutters low under his breath, in case she senses the words from all the way across the open floor and through a bullet-proof window. “She’s a little cranky this morning.” </p><p>By lunch, Elle’s tempest mood has, if not totally evaporated, at least cleared enough for her to approach them with some semblance of calm at the kitchen.</p><p>“Sorry for biting your heads off this morning,” she says to her sandwich, her expression still stony. But she raises her eyebrows sardonically in a show of humor. “I went home for the weekend.” </p><p>Morgan winces in sympathy. The little she has revealed about her family in New York makes him guilty for not visiting Chicago more often and grateful to have the desire to visit at all. </p><p>“Did you know that most Americans live a median of 18 miles from their mothers? On the other hand twenty percent of adult Americans live more than a few hour’s drive from their parents. The biggest determinant of the distance is economic opportunity, defined by factors such as education or income.” Reid nods to himself and his fingers waggle around his coffee mug. <em> Tip tap tip tap tip tap. </em></p><p>Elle twitches. </p><p>“In fact, the more education one has, the farther away from home we go. It’s pretty obviously indicative of the class divides inherent in our society.” <em> Tip tap tip tap. </em></p><p>Elle’s hand spasms the teeniest bit around her sandwich. Morgan watches the unsuspecting loaf compress and splinter under her fingers, mayonnaise squeezing out mournfully through the lettuce leaves.</p><p>“But what’s <em> really </em>interesting —” </p><p>Okay, now she is <em> definitely </em>going for her gun —</p><p>“What <em> I </em> find interesting,” to the surprise of all, most of all himself, Morgan’s mouth is suddenly moving on its own. The other two startle and their heads swivel to him unerringly, like birds of prey. He has been inexplicably possessed by the Spirit of Bullshit and can only vomit the next thought dumb enough to flit through his head right then: “Is — uh — is how many times Hotch — has to tell you to stop stealing the sugar packets before you actually stop.” He winces.</p><p>Reid’s fingers cease their staccato drum. He looks mildly wounded, his lips pursing, but Morgan can’t feel bad because Elle actually snorts and rolls her eyes. Her hand moves surreptitiously away from her hip holster. </p><p>“Reid and sugar are written in the stars. No Hotch can ever get in the way of their star-crossed love,” she’s grinning now. Reid senses that he’s the butt of a joke but can’t follow how things turned on him so quickly, so he draws up an uncertain smile instead of rattling off any further stats on sugar or stars or lovers.</p><p>Morgan heaves an internal sigh, eyeing Reid’s stilled hands warily.</p><p>So, sure, he kind of gets it now. Maybe the nails are a little much. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>For a second Morgan thinks someone has literally thrown up all over Reid and takes a moment to let himself gag silently before taking a closer look and — nope. That’s just the knit pattern. The very questionable, puke-inspired knit pattern. Seriously. Where does the guy get his clothing? He can't help sneaking nauseated glances at the sweater all morning, like the shape of it will liquify if he leaves it alone too long. </p><p>At lunch, Morgan shakes off irrational revulsion at the idea of touching the bizarrely accurate barf color and manfully puts his hand on one pukey shoulder. </p><p>“Ready for food, pretty boy?” </p><p>He gets a distracted, drawn out, “Sure, one second…” as Reid’s fingers skim down the file he’s inhaling. And dammit, Elle, that nail is <em> coke </em>long; he can never unsee it. The nail in question scrapes slightly against the paper, and Morgan has the sudden distinct feeling that a meth head is breathing sourly over his grave in the future. </p><p>Just as he’s expertly contained his shudder, Reid snaps his file closed and turns to beam at him. “Indian?”</p><p>“Sure, man.” </p><p>They grab quick take out from around the corner and return to find the kitchen bursting with color. In a rare moment of magnanimity, Garcia has decided to grace the break area with her presence during croissant time instead of coveting her pastry in her batcave. She takes one look at the tragic sweater of the day as they approach and clucks.</p><p>“Oof, with <em> your </em> skin tone? <em> Honey</em>.” </p><p>As she sidles up to Morgan, she mutters, “And I keep telling the boy to <em> stop </em>with the helmet hair. Let those curls free! I know they’re in there under all that car grease.”</p><p>Out loud, she declares, “Dear Dr. Reid, this is officially an intervention. You,” she points a finely manicured finger at the offending party. “And me,” the finger waves back to herself. “This weekend. Shopping. Since I know JJ is busy, Morgan has a home to wreck, and Elle is still mad about her coffee.”</p><p>“I wasn’t done with it!” Elle yells from her desk, but her dimples are clear from this side of the bullpen. </p><p>Reid pulls his mouth sideways in his patented <em> not sure what expression this social situation calls for </em>face. His hands go reflexively to smooth his hair, and Morgan knows that Garcia’s voice carried too well despite her minimal efforts.  </p><p>"Um, I was actually going to this Japanese film festival downtown this weekend," Reid says, wilting a little, though he brightens as a thought occurs to him. "I could probably swing an extra ticket if you'd like to join, though. They're showing back-to-back Kurosawa and Satoshi Kon features."</p><p>Garcia surprises both Morgan and Reid with a piercing squeal. </p><p>"Oh my god, <em> Paprika </em> is totally my color palette jam! You, sir, have just secured me as your date." </p><p>Reid's smile is slightly bewildered but no less blinding. </p><p>"<em> After</em>," Garcia wags her finger. "Shopping. Let me introduce you to the word <em> cardigan</em>.”</p><p>The smile dims by several degrees, but it holds on for dear life as he nods hesitantly, clearly trying to decipher if there’s another definition for <em> “ </em>cardigan” he isn’t aware of.</p><p>Morgan laughs. </p><p>"You, my friend, have no idea what you've just agreed to."</p><p>There is an audible gulp from Reid as Garcia's smile takes on a downright insidious edge. Morgan snaps a mental picture of the helpless consternation on his friend's face. For posterity. </p><p>The weekend passes for Morgan in a blur of plaster and wall-tearing and too many trips to the hardware store. In between he fields a few incomprehensible texts from Garcia that involve a lot of exclamation points and names of clothing articles he doesn't recognize. She refuses to send any pictures, claiming something bogus called a “surprise factor.” She seems to be having fun. He shoots Reid a few messages to check in and receives standard, diplomatic replies, which means the kid is in way over his head and desperately needs back up. </p><p>As his phone blows up again (clearly Garcia has been struck by some maniacal inspiration) Morgan carefully sets it to silent for the rest of the evening. </p><p>On Monday Reid walks into the office looking — Morgan frowns — exactly as he usually does. Albeit there is a distinct lack of bar bathroom floor decor spattered across today's cardigan. It's just an inoffensive solid red. </p><p>Reid is predictably cagey about what exactly went down with Garcia and her alarming amount of punctuation, but he waxes poetic on the double feature they caught long enough that Morgan is finishing up coffee number two by the time the kid breaks to breathe. Reid fingers the red sleeves self-consciously but never mentions its newness out loud, so Morgan doesn't either.</p><p>"Glad you had fun, kid," is a genuine sentiment Reid responds to with a shy grin that he tries to clamp down but Morgan sees anyway. Then Elle sweeps in to regale them with her disaster of a Saturday night date, and Morgan is too busy judging the hell out of her taste in men to make any further judgements on Reid's makeover — or lack thereof.</p><p>"I honestly don't see the difference," he admits later to Garcia over a butter croissant. She's emerged from her cave again, ostensibly to do security checks on their desktops, but really she's here to observe Reid's outfit up close in its new habitat and flirt with Morgan. </p><p>"That's the genius of it, my prince. It's all in the <em> subtlety</em>."</p><p>His eyebrows go up at that. </p><p>"Don't get me wrong baby girl, it's no barf bag sweater. I just thought the point of a makeover was, you know, a <em> makeover. </em>"</p><p>The look Garcia gives him can only be described as pitying. </p><p>"Oh you sweet, good-thing-you're-hot, summer child. <em> He’s All That </em> this ain’t. One does not simply <em> make over </em> the good Dr. Reid. A true makeover is all about <em> sowing the seeds</em>."</p><p>That makes all of zero sense to Morgan, and he tells her so. She just purses her lips at him indulgently. Apparently deciding she's had enough of his ignorance for the day, she gets up from his desk, leaving a few delicately crushed reports in her wake.</p><p>“I’m playing the long game, boo. These things take time." With one more sultry look through her lashes and a goodbye chirp to Reid and Elle, she struts away. Morgan has no clue what any of that means either and decides to ignore the ominous feeling in his gut, which is probably not a good idea where Garcia is concerned, but she would never purposefully sabotage Reid. He thinks.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When he gets to the conference room, JJ is the only one there, briskly organizing files. Weekend cases always take them unawares, and this one seems no different. He’d been in the middle of a very raunchy Saturday afternoon nap, and he’s still dusting the cobwebs out of his eyes. He takes the file JJ hands him with a nod of thanks and takes his seat. </p><p>Reid rushes in not long after, jacket askew, bag flapping open, and a pair of glasses Morgan has never seen before slipping down his nose. Morgan must be making a face at him, because Reid’s mouth goes flat.</p><p>“Allergic reaction to a new contact solution,” the kid explains, blinking bloodshot eyes at him. Morgan is still distracted by the glasses, so his sympathetic face is probably not his best work. His eyebrows are pretty versatile, though. He’s sure he manages. </p><p>Gideon bursts in next, striding with his usual grand purpose, followed more sedately but no less urgently by Hotch and Elle. </p><p>“What do we have, JJ?” Gideon rumbles — kindly, but JJ’s smile still has an uncomfortable edge of anxiety to it. </p><p>Morgan tries to pay attention to the case (“The third victim was found this morning. Mallorey James, 24 years old. She was strangled in her home, no signs of forced entry, again with the same fishing line…”) but his mind still isn’t all there, and he is preoccupied by the occasional blinding glare of Reid’s glasses from across the table. Morgan’s not even sure they’re doing him any good because he squints like someone’s misquoted a math theorem the entire briefing. </p><p>Hotch gives them twenty minutes to wheels up, which is just enough time for absolutely nothing (does Hotch forget that the airfield isn’t <em> literally </em> just outside the doors?), so they’re all scrambling to grab last minute things like go-bags and the good coffee and philosophy term papers. Hotch has vanished completely, like he usually does before he miraculously turns up on the plane before anyone else. Gideon doesn’t seem to own any material things like bags or changes of clothes, so he’s out of sight already too, probably in a bid to outdo Hotch. Elle and JJ beat them to the elevators before Morgan and Reid are even out of the bullpen. Morgan sees Elle stick her tongue out at them through the glass as they make a poor attempt at catching up. There is a sly low-five before the door closes on the ladies’ smug faces.</p><p>The two stragglers are barely into the hall when the sound of pounding heels and an imperious call echoing across the floor brings their heads sharply around.</p><p>“Halt!”</p><p>It’s Garcia, resplendent today in a floral dress and sheer gold shawl. She marches right up to Reid and squints menacingly up at his frames. Reid’s spine bends so far back, Morgan isn’t sure if he’ll snap or tuck into a backflip. They’re nose to nose for an eternity. </p><p>Garcia glares a little harder then straightens abruptly.</p><p>“Approved!” she barks happily. “Have a safe flight, sir knights!” </p><p>Then she whirls around and catwalks away, skirt sashaying whimsically. </p><p>The two remaining stand in the ensuing silence for a long second before Reid has the presence of mind to reach out and hit the down button. Right. They’re in a hurry. They stand in silence some more, watching the numbers light up like a carnival ride. Reid pushes his glasses up his nose uncertainly. Glances at Morgan through the side of the frames. Morgan squints.</p><p>“How did she even know?” he wonders faintly.</p><p>“Security cameras,” Reid answers, grim. </p><p>“Ah.”</p><p>What a terrifying thought. The elevator dings.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s a rare night when the team is back from a case at a reasonable hour with enough energy for a drink. Morgan can’t recall the name of the place they’ve shacked up in, only remembers Garcia mentioning something to do with a hedgehog. </p><p>The woman in question is currently doing shots of something purple with JJ, two blonde heads swaying together under the dim lights. Morgan and Elle have commandeered the pool table, and he would totally be winning if Reid wasn’t jabbering in his ear about laws of reflection and angles of incidence. Elle doesn’t feel the need to heckle, happy to let Reid do it inadvertently for her, and she just leans into the table with a dangerous glint in her eye. In the end his shot goes wide anyway, 8-ball flinging off in exactly the wrong direction, so it’s all moot. Elle laughs way too loud when Reid, in a fit of severe disappointment, starts violently mapping out the math in the air, sloshing his beer everywhere. </p><p>Hotch is content to sit quietly in his corner with the air of an indulgent father only half-watching his unruly children and trusting someone else to take responsibility for any broken windows. Morgan recognizes the shade of anxiety in his look, though, that says the chief will beg off within the next thirty minutes to get back home to Haley and Jack. Beside him, even Gideon seems to be enjoying himself in his brooding grandfatherly way.</p><p>Morgan eventually loses spectacularly, to Elle’s mocking crow of delight and Reid’s undying dismay, and he begs off to the restroom before the kid has the chance to again bemoan the disconnect between his athletic ability and grasp on geometry. When he gets back, Garcia and JJ have converged on the other two at the bar. JJ has a quietly glazed look about her, but Garcia is full on sloppy drunk. </p><p>“I’m just saying,” she is slurring loudly at Reid as he approaches. “Someone with your bone structure has no business hiding it like that. You’re, like, secretly gorg, you know? And,” she scoots closer conspiratorially, and Reid stiffens imperceptibly. “Don’t worry, I can help you.” </p><p>She frowns. </p><p>“Wait, I’ve <em> been </em> helping you!” </p><p>The realization tips her bodily into Reid, and she beams up at him. </p><p>“I lied,” she admits. “I’m totally <em> He’s All That- </em> ing you. This is great. <em> You’re </em> great. I <em> love </em>you.” </p><p>She flings her arms around Reid’s neck, and his eyes bug out, seeking help plaintively. Morgan only smiles and leans casually against the bar. Salutes him. Sniggers at his answering grimace. He’s a great friend.</p><p>“Thanks, uh, Garcia. I love you too.” Reid’s voice is pained, to the point of tears. His hands flap around her like indecisive bats. Morgan thinks, a little uncharitably, of Edward Scissorhands. Garcia stares muddily at Reid’s chin, then tries to pat him on the face but only manages to swat his glasses off his nose.</p><p>“You’ll grow into that jaw,” she nods sagely. “I believe in you.” </p><p>JJ has a look that says she’s sorry she’s not taking a video of the proceedings, but she grabs Reid’s glasses off the floor anyway and settles them back on his face with a soft, “Here, Spence.” </p><p>Garcia chooses then to lean even closer and mutter something Morgan can’t fully hear, but he thinks it sounds an awful lot like “tighter pants”? Whatever it was, Reid is now bright pink and choking on nothing. JJ wacks him on the back gleefully, clearly in on the joke. Reid recovers, only for Garcia to suddenly ratchet back up, narrowly missing his chin. </p><p>“Oh my god, JJ, it’s our song!” Garcia swings an arm around and hooks a laughing JJ by the neck, whipping the two of them away so wildly Morgan is a little concerned about whiplash. </p><p>By now Elle has wandered over to Gideon, probably to ask about the Footpath Killer again, based on the set of the man’s face. Hotch has already taken advantage of Garcia’s exuberant performance and slipped away, leaving Reid and Morgan alone at the bar. </p><p>Reid is watching Garcia and JJ with one part mortification and a larger part fondness. </p><p>“Having fun?” Morgan asks.</p><p>“Yeah, I am,” Reid’s voice is wistful.</p><p>“Garcia playing nice with you?”</p><p>“Yeah, she, uh,” Reid frowns like he’s going through all his interactions over the past few weeks. “She’s been helping me out.”</p><p>“Helping.” Morgan says flatly, fairly sure the word Reid was looking for is “manipulating-for-nefarious-reasons-unknown-but-probably-for-her-own-entertainment.” But he doesn’t want to do anything drastic like warn Reid off her. Or try to stop Garcia from conducting whatever experiment this is of hers. <em> That </em> would end well.</p><p>“Yeah,” Reid’s face is open and guileless. “Helping.”</p><p>Morgan snorts.</p><p>“Whatever, man. Just don’t come crying to me when she steals and burns all your sneakers.”</p><p>“I think the sheer volume of that task would serve as a deterrent, as I have <em> many </em>pairs.”</p><p>“So I’ve seen. Alright kid, why don’t you show me how that law of refraction works.”</p><p>“<em>Reflection. </em>”</p><p>Morgan obediently repeats the correction and swings his arm up around the kid’s shoulders, gratified when the contact doesn’t spark any tension in the skinny frame. Sure, he’ll probably be treated to a lecture that will only make him realize how much he’s forgotten since high school math, but he doesn’t mind. His eyes trail back to where the girls are dancing, and behind them he can see Elle and Gideon still sitting in the gloom, though Gideon is smiling at something Elle says. He hopes Hotch sleeps well. Reid nearly swipes his nose off drawing a hypotenuse in the air while earnestly explaining how to prove congruence.</p><p>It’s a good night.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They're in Bumfuck, Florida and Morgan wishes he could actually melt because puddles don’t have sweat glands. The heat of Chicago or D.C. is one thing. <em> This </em> is <em> just… </em></p><p>Morgan can think of no valid reason for building human settlements anywhere near this swampy hellhole. He has never had such strong opinions on climate. </p><p>Reid must agree, by the look of desolate misery on his face. Morgan would have figured his lack of body fat would be a boon here, but swamp is swamp. The team spends its first day swimming through interviews with sticky locals and a collection of damp files. The tiny air conditioning unit in the PD office sputters gamely for a few hours but gives out suddenly when they return to regroup after lunch. The local authorities, such as they are, glare at them like it’s their fault. Energy and morale is low by evening.</p><p>Morgan leans back in his creaky plastic chair and peels his shirt from his skin, grimacing. Beside him Reid fans himself with a sheath of papers, shirt untucked and billowing in an attempt to air himself out. Elle seems to be shielding herself from the humidity by sheer force of will, but even she and her hair are drooping somewhat. JJ manages to look immaculate in the way newscasters do in the middle of hurricanes. Gideon is the same unflappable Gideon.</p><p>It’s nearing 10pm, and Morgan’s trying to find a way to flip through the ME’s report again without leaving damp fingerprints all over it when Hotch walks grimly up to their corner. It’s a toss up if this is good or bad or neutral news. The man always looks grim to Morgan. </p><p>“That’s enough for today. Let’s head to the motel and get some rest,” the chief says with as much authority as he can manage with sweat waterfalling down his face. Admittedly it’s still pretty damn authoritative. Somehow he’s still in his full suit, too, which is either impressive or absurd. </p><p>There are groans of relief all around and some vague movements to organize their work before this is deemed futile. Then it is a slow trudge to what is generously called a motel; it’s basically a single-room camp cabin with a thin divide down the center. Boys versus girls.</p><p>“Kumbaya campers,” Morgan mutters as he beds down on the thinnest mattress known to man. He’s going to have spring imprints in his back come morning. In the dark Morgan can see Reid’s feet dangling off his own bed comically, the freakishly tall noodle that he is. Hotch lies perfectly on his back, unnervingly still, on the other side of the room. Morgan wouldn’t be surprised if his arms were crossed even in sleep. He knows one of the other vague shapes in the dark is either Gideon or the sad couch, but it’s hard to tell, and honestly the two things are already pretty similar in daylight.  </p><p>There’s a tremendous creak as Reid turns over in his bed. </p><p>“Morgan,” comes a shallow whisper. “Not to alarm you, but I think I may have just spotted a <em> Nephilia clavipes</em>, locally known as the banana spider, or the golden silk orb-weaver. They’re fairly common around the Everglades and near other densely forested areas. The males are generally small, but the females can grow to as long as —”</p><p>“Reid,” Morgan says slowly. “Is it poisonous?”</p><p>“I think you mean venomous, but no, its bite is actually pretty harmless. It usually only —”</p><p>“Then please do not tell me if you see a giant ass spider crawling on me in the dark. I do not want to know.”</p><p>“Oh. Okay. Goodnight, Morgan,” this followed by another <em> creaaak</em>. </p><p>“Night, kid.”</p><p>Morgan thinks he hears a snicker from beyond the divider. Three guesses as to who. </p><p>The night is long and dense and Morgan wakes drenched, to the sounds of frantic rustling. A glance at his watch tells him it’s 6:43 am, and a glance around the room tells him Hotch and Gideon are long gone. There’s some shuffling and murmurs from behind the divider, so he knows the ladies are awake too. Which leaves boy genius. </p><p>Morgan squints uncomprehendingly at a clearly panicking Reid, who is tearing through his bags with single minded focus. Despite his haste his discard piles are still pretty organized, Morgan notes wryly. </p><p>“Reid. <em> Reid. </em>” The kid turns doe eyes to him. “Hey, man, what’s wrong?”</p><p>“Nothing!” Reid squeaks in his <em> I’m definitely lying and definitely about to dissemble with a terrifying spider fact to distract you </em>voice. </p><p>“Sure doesn’t seem like it.”</p><p>Reid tries to ignore Morgan for a few seconds more, but Morgan’s stare can combust small fires (and the occasional consenting adult) at thirty paces so pretty boy’s got nothing on him. Reid finally sighs and <em> droops</em>, giving the impression of a deflating Jeff Koons balloon. </p><p>“I think I, uh, forgot to pack my hair gel,” he says in a voice so small. His hands reach up to press nervously at his hair and — oh. Morgan hadn’t noticed under the fog of coffeelessness, but the doc’s head is currently crowned by a truly impressive halo of fluffy curls, frizzing wildly in the humidity. Curls he’s now making wholehearted attempts at flattening with his palms. Very unsuccessfully. </p><p>“Ah,” Morgan grins. Suddenly some things make more sense. “That’s a good look, Shirley Temple. Why don’t you let ‘em out more often? Is this what Garcia’s always whining about?”</p><p>Instead of glaring or flattening his mouth in a confused line, or any number of his usual responses, Reid only aims a strained half smile in his general direction and starts meticulously repacking toiletries. He studiously avoids eye contact as he does so, and it makes Morgan's lips turn down, unsure where he misstepped. </p><p>Reid is subdued the rest of the morning. The team is also subdued, between the heat and bad sleep, but they’re not the ones Morgan may have inadvertently offended. Reid packs himself into the far corner, away from the rest of the team (as away as he can get at a ten-foot table), like he’s afraid they’ll look at him too long and notice something different about him. Like his miraculously curly hair, for example. Morgan catches Reid swiping ineffectually at the fluffy mass for the sixty seventh time (yes, he counted, and yes guilt is a <em> great </em> look on him) when he makes his decision. </p><p>“Hey Reid, let’s go grab lunch. Hotch!” Hotch looks up with a great intensity that Morgan ignores, just like he ignores Reid’s deer in headlights look. “We’re getting food. Any requests?” </p><p>Hotch’s intensity melts into contemplation. </p><p>“I’m good with anything. But not yesterday’s place, if you can help it.”</p><p>“I second that,” calls Elle. </p><p>“Anything is good for me, thanks,” smiles JJ. </p><p>“Hmm,” says Gideon, who probably subsists on the smiles of rescued children or something anyway.</p><p>“Let’s go, kid.” Morgan tries not to take offense at the dejected resignation in Reid’s posture as they dive into the thick outside air. </p><p>Turns out the next nearest food shack is a good thirty-minute drive out, which suits Morgan’s purposes just fine. </p><p>“Hey, so,” he glances sideways at the morose figure next to him. “I’m sorry for joking about your hair. Didn’t realize it was a sore subject.”</p><p>Reid tugs glumly at a stray curl, which springs back enthusiastically. </p><p>“It’s not a bad look, really,” Morgan tries. “Curls are in, dude.”</p><p>Reid sighs like he knows what Morgan’s trying to do and doing badly, but he doesn’t need it. </p><p>“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m fine. It’s just hair. Stupid to get so worked up over nothing.”</p><p>Morgan remains skeptical. </p><p>“It’s not nothing if it gets you worked up,” he says cautiously. </p><p>He can <em> hear </em> the eye roll, but it’s directed mostly at Reid’s knobby corduroy knees.</p><p>“It’s just hard,” Reid admits quietly. “To keep up.” </p><p>“With what?”</p><p>Reid worries at his lip, brows curving in a sharp V, takes a fortifying breath.</p><p>“The first thing people see when they look at me is my youth. Then it’s my weird hair, or my slouch, or my clothes. Or my <em> nails </em> —” dammit, he <em> knew </em> Reid had noticed that “— I’m <em> trying </em> to fit in, but there are just so many things to remember. On top of trying to stay ahead of everything else.” Reid’s sigh is very small, very young, and very frustrated. “I try to remember that my appearance matters, because it seems important to people and sometimes lives depend on people taking me seriously, but it’s hard to keep up all the time.”</p><p>Sometimes Morgan forgets that Reid went from awkward snot-nosed kid to awkward nineteenth century professor without anything in between to catch him up to being awkward in the twenty-first century. It must be hard enough, young as he is, trying to build credibility with tough-guy law enforcement while standing next to alpha males like Gideon or Hotch. And that’s without his team questioning his hair or sweater choices. </p><p>“Reid,” keeping his voice low and serious, trying to <em> impress </em> this on the kid. “ <em> No one </em> here cares what you look like.”</p><p>Reid’s eyebrow goes up, like <em> really. </em> And Morgan knows he’s thinking about Garcia and her drunken babbling and whirlwind shopping trips. He gets that Reid must be confused as hell by all the attention, but he also thinks that maybe he doesn’t need to explain about Garcia being Garcia. Morgan winces. Maybe he should talk her down a bit, though. She can be overwhelming even under less personally fraught circumstances. </p><p>“Really,” he says firmly. “First thing I see when I look at you is how many cases you’ve solved. Or your scary number of doctorates. Or how diabetic you’re going to be in ten years.” Reid looks like he’s going to dispute that last one with something silly like science, so Morgan forges on quickly. “I shouldn’t have to tell you this, because you’re way too smart to not get this, but appearances are literally the least of anyone’s worries. Your value to the team isn’t contingent on it.”</p><p>“Easy for you to say.”</p><p>“Maybe. I’m still saying it to you.”</p><p>Reid stares at his hands.</p><p>“I’m not lying. We only want you for your brains, man.”</p><p>Reid is <em> still </em>silent, but Morgan senses the tension leaking tentatively out of his bony frame. </p><p>“You should probably cut your nails before you rip one out on a filing cabinet, though. Or Elle chops off your fingers, uses them for some voodoo shit.”</p><p>Reid huffs, the stubbornness blowing out of him like steam at the first opportunity for pedantry. “Voodoo, specifically, doesn’t use human body parts. Depending on the branch, and there are several derivatives in the U.S. alone, most rituals mainly revolve around dancing and singing and sometimes food or sacrificial animal offerings.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah. And don’t let Garcia bully you into doing anything you don’t want to.”</p><p>“No, no, she’s been really nice. Hanging out with her has been… nice.”</p><p>They sit in silence for a few moments. Gravel rumbles comfortingly under the wheels of the SUV, and the green around them is actually a nice change of pace when there’s AC blasting arctic winds to combat the crushing heat. They pass a few dilapidated signs, a lake (or it could be a swamp, Morgan couldn’t tell you), some more trees. He senses Reid shift in his seat.</p><p>“Morgan?” Reid’s eyes are wide and so very earnest.</p><p>“Yeah, kid.” Morgan tries to convey, with a well-placed eyebrow over a long look, that he <em> sees </em> him. And he’s very glad to be his friend. He thinks Reid gets it when he smiles.</p><p>“You missed the turn.”</p><p>Ah shit.</p><p>“Ah shit.” </p><p>Out of the corner of his eye Morgan sees a tiny, goofy grin fighting its way onto Reid’s face. His own mouth tilts upward. Smartass. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The funniest thing about season 1 is the attempt to hide a literal fashion model under a bad haircut and frumpy clothing.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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